


Just One (Is Never Enough)

by Myrime



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Sick Tony Stark, Stane is an Ass, Tony Needs a Hug, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 18:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: Tony knows the criteria for diagnosing an addiction since Pepper has helpfully supplied him with a flyer once or five times. He is not an addict. He could stop. It is not withdrawal making him feel miserable. That is just his life. At least Obie understands that and helps - even if that means putting a bottle of whiskey in his hand at eleven in the morning.Tony is fine.





	Just One (Is Never Enough)

**Author's Note:**

> Another entry for the [Iron Man Bingo 2019 Round 2](https://iron-man-bingo.tumblr.com/), square: Withdrawal

Tony wakes with a start. The transition from sleep to awake happens in a panic-infused second that catapults Tony from a mostly forgotten nightmare of hands pulling him under black waves to the sensation of being unable to move, unable to escape the lingering feeling of unease. It takes him several breathless moments to realize that his dream has not become flesh but that he is only entangled in his clam, sweat-soaked bedsheet.

He struggles against its grip without success, then falls back against the cushions pressing uncomfortably against his skin. Only then, with great reluctance, does he open his eyes. The light feels like daggers embedding themselves in his skull, relentlessly driving forward and making the already unbearable pounding ache worse. Tony groans, swallows against the dryness of his throat. His tongue feels like a swollen, foreign thing inside his mouth.

“What day is it?” Tony asks into the emptiness of his bedroom. His own voice is enough to make his ears ring and his head ache.

He wants to take the question back, certain he cannot stand another sound, but his ever-diligent AI answers before he can muster the energy to speak again.

“Tuesday,” JARVIS says, “Eleven in the morning.” Tony is certain JARVIS speaks louder than he has to, just as there is no mistaking the disappointment accompanying the words.

In turn, Tony closes his eyes as if that will help him escape that. He does not want to think about how his own creation’s disgust makes him feel, how lost he is already, mere minutes after waking up.

When the actual words register, Tony stills. Tuesday, he thinks, the word echoing hollowly inside his mind. He could have sworn it was just Friday. That means he is losing days again.

Tony wants to pull his pillow over his head and get back to sleep, a dreamless one this time. Everybody is always so angry with him when he is losing time – at least when he is not doing so inside the workshop. Nobody minds when he does not come up for air while he is working. Sleep is such a waste of time, though, theirs and his.

Pepper will be waiting with stacks of paperwork, and Obie will have projects to discuss. Shivers run through Tony’s body at the mere thought.

As if JARVIS has read his mind, he says, “Mr. Stane is waiting for you downstairs.”

Something gathers inside the pit of Tony’s stomach that might be dread, but could also be simple nausea instead. He sometimes gets that from just thinking about moving.

He does not want to get up, does not want to pour all his energy into pushing through the pain that is pulsing through his body. If he has to, he will. He has a lot of experience with it, but he wonders whether it is too much to ask to just get a break for once.

Taking a deep breath, Tony sits up. Despite the turmoil this causes inside his stomach, he goes all the way from lying down to sitting at the edge of his bed in one not very smooth motion. Once sitting, he regrets having ever woken up. His headache increases tenfold with a roar, nearly blinding him with pain. He does not know where is up and down, whether he is still sitting or already falling.

Cradling his head inside his hands, Tony waits for the agony to pass. Someday, he fears, it will stay with him forever, a constant companion like the whispering thoughts in the back of his mind that sound suspiciously like Howard that he never quite managed to silence, no matter how hard he tries.

Minutes pass that feel like hours. His heartbeat is a stumbling staccato in his ears as his heart rattles against the inside of his ribcage, demanding to be let out, to be laid to rest.

Finally, things calm down enough for Tony to dare look around. He is in his bedroom, which is a good sign. He has woken up in much worse places. The bedsheet is still clinging to his legs and he takes it with him, wondering how he is going to disentangle himself from it without falling over.

He is awake enough now to notice the rotten taste inside his mouth and searches for something to wash it away with. The thirst he feels is merely a secondary concern. Two bottles sit on his nightstand. One has fallen over, lying in a small puddle of clear liquid. The other one still has perhaps an inch of its content left.

Tony reaches out for it. His hand is trembling badly and misses the bottle by a good deal on his first try. His entire arm feels too heavy, straining to stay in the air. That feeling passes the moment Tony’s fingers close around the neck of the bottle.

The vodka does not burn as it slides down his throat. The shame lurking somewhere in the back of his mind does, however.

These thoughts are not something to linger on. In fact, they are exactly what made him end up here, miserable and in pain. Avoidance is a good motivator, though, so Tony pushes himself to his feet without further stalling.

He does not even make it all the way up before he falls right back down onto the mattress because his vision swims and all the blood drains out of his head. It is a good thing he did not strip the bedsheet away yet, because he thinks that is the only reason why he falls backwards instead of flat on his nose.

“Do you want me to call for assistance?” JARVIS asks, and only belatedly adds, “Sir.”

Nothing clears Tony’s minds faster than the thought of being seen like this. It is funny, how pride works. He should not have any of that left. And yet.

It takes Tony the better part of an hour to get out of bed and into the bathroom. His legs and hands are shaking too badly for him to take a shower, so he falls more than climbs into his bathtub and sits there while he lets hot water trickle down his back. He drinks some of it but that amplifies his nausea. After that, he just sits there, wondering about how easy it would be to drown here.

When he finally makes his way downstairs, his shirt is unbuttoned but he feels almost human again. Not enough to be actually up for company, but he does not walk right back to his bedroom at least.

Obie is standing at the window, looking out over the sea. His back is straight and he does not turn around when he hears Tony’s steps coming closer. That is as sure a sign as any that he is angry. People usually are where Tony is involved.

“Good morning,” Tony greets, as he walks over to the couch, his legs feeling weak already. He winces at the hoarseness of his own voice and wishes he had said nothing. It makes Obie stop ignoring him, though. Tony is not sure whether that is a good thing.

Something flickers over Obie’s face and while it is too quickly replaced by the usual wide smile, Tony knows what it was. Pity and disgust and a whole lot of questions about his remaining worth. Some nights, when he is actually sober, Tony looks in the mirror and sees the same questions on his own face.

“You’re going to make me late for the board meeting,” Obadiah says by way of greeting, as if Tony has called him here, actually wanting to entertain guests instead of wallowing in self-pity.

Reaching the couch, Tony lets himself sink into the cushions with a sigh. He did not know there was a board meeting scheduled. Then again, he did not know what day it is either. For a fleeting moment, he imagines Howard’s disappointed face at Tony’s lack of interest in Stark Industries. Tony is good at what he does and he can spew out a dozen good ideas in a row when he is on a working binge. It just does not feel like his. Not after his father’s constant tirades and then his sudden death, leaving Tony to continue a legacy he never managed to live up to before.

Most of the time, it is easy to ignore that weak sense of duty, drowning it beneath parties and alcohol and beautiful women. Sometimes, though, Obie looks at him the way Howard always did, and that makes it hard to cling to his chosen irresponsibility.

“Perhaps I should come with you,” Tony offers, and is sure he only does because he knows Obie will refuse.

He still cannot ignore the slight disappointment he feels when Obadiah shakes his head. Tony does not _want_ to go to a board meeting and face an entire table full of judging faces and constant scrutiny. He would like to be needed, though. Even if it is only for a little while and for something as unimportant as a meeting with ever circling conversations.

“You should take care of yourself first,” Obadiah answers with that same generosity he has always shown Tony since Howard and Maria’s death.

It gave Tony time to grieve – or to accept the fact that he was _not_ grieving – and to finish his studies, to _live_ before Stark Industries is going to swallow him whole. It has been some years but Tony is not any closer to finding any peace. Obie is not rushing him, though.

“It’s still my company,” Tony argues, surprising himself.

It is not as if he even has time to care for Stark Industries in between hiding away in his workshop and drowning his worries in alcohol. The latter is a coping mechanism he learned from Howard, which really should make him stay away from it, but he has never actually listened to common sense.

“And I speak for you,” Obadiah counters calmly. He looks hurt, as if Tony has just questioned his loyalty. “I’m here to help you like I helped your father.”

Tony thinks he should have gone looking for a new bottle before coming downstairs if Obie is in the mood to discuss Howard. His insides are tense and curled into aching knots already. The nausea still has not passed, even though he takes care not to move.

“But I can –” Tony tries to insist, but is secretly glad when Obie interrupts him.

“I know you can,” he says. He has used that same tone for as long as Tony can remember, encouraging him even when Howard threw his projects and ideas directly onto the junk pile. “But you don’t have to.”

Tony’s entire life consists of things he _has_ to do, of expectations he _has_ to meet. His effort always falls short. It is nice to have someone looking out for him, to see when he is doing badly. Pepper and Rhodey do too, up to a certain point, but they are always so eager to fix _him _and not his circumstances.

“You look a little pale,” Obadiah continues. It feels like Tony has missed a portion of their conversation, drifting off along the currents of his rambling mind. “Do you need a drink?”

Something inside Tony immediately perks up. The taste of the last drops of vodka he had after waking up is still lingering on his tongue, calling for more. He does not _need_ to drink, of course. It is just a way to calm his mind enough that he can work properly. His brain has always had the habit of running in overdrive, leaving him lost amongst his own thoughts.

“I shouldn’t,” Tony says nonetheless. He tries calm his mind through other means, to keep his fingers occupied so they will not itch to close around a bottle. “There’s work to do.”

“And you’ll get it done,” Obadiah reassures him easily. He is already moving towards the liquor cabinet, anticipating Tony’s needs despite his protest. “You don’t have too hurt yourself for it.”

That remark rankles Tony. It does not hurt him not to drink. Yes, he feels the ever constant tremble in his fingers, and his headache would be crippling if he had not had years of practice of working through it.

He can trust Obie, though. Out of all the people in the world, it was always Obie who stood at his side without question – at least since Jarvis died. Tony loves Pepper and Rhodey, but they never seem to accept that this is who he is, that there is no fixing that.

Rationally, Tony does not want a drink, but the familiar craving is spreading through his chest, pulling at his sternum. His skin itches with the need to feel cool glass beneath it. Time always drags by so slowly when he tries to do the right thing and stay sober. His brain, too, gets muffled, distracted by the memory of bottles clinking against each other.

One glass cannot hurt.

“One,” he tells Obie, and the roaring inside his head is already dissipating. One will be enough to calm the shaky feeling of his body and give his mind some clarity.

Obadiah nods benevolently at him as he gets out a glass. He pours and pours, then brings over a glass that is filled almost to the brim. It is only practice and sheer need that keeps Tony from spilling any of the precious liquid.

It does not even taste good anymore, tainted by his thoughts, by imagining his friends’ faces. They do not know what he needs.

Tony knows the criteria for diagnosing an addiction since Pepper has helpfully supplied him with a flyer once or five times. _Hazardous use of addictive substances. Social or work-related problems due to substance use. Failure to meet responsibilities. Tolerance. Unsuccessful attempts to quit. Giving up on other activities. Spending too much time using the substance. Craving. Withdrawal symptoms._

He is _not_ an addict. He could stop. It is not withdrawal making him feel miserable. That is just his life.

Obie is right. Why should he make things unnecessarily hard for himself? He gets his work done just as well, and if he is losing some days to oblivion, it is not like he misses much. Life only happens when he _is_ there.

The bottle is standing within reach, and Tony moves before he knows what he is doing. Obie watches him with a smile, not judging.

“I’ll call you if something interesting happens during the board meeting,” Obadiah says as he gets to his feet. “Just concentrate on yourself and your work.”

Busy draining his glass, Tony just nods his thanks and waves Obadiah off. He is doing well. The exhaustion is already falling off him, so he is sure he is going to get some profitable hours in in the workshop – after he is done with his drink.

Obadiah whistles as he walks out of the room, leaving Tony behind, knowing he is well cared for. Already, Tony’s brain gets ready to create, the alcohol promising to mute the worst of its background noise.

When Tony goes down to the workshop, he takes the bottle with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite thet topic, this was fun to write. I just love to hate Obadiah.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
